We live in the age of bitter ironies,
a time of harvest,
a time of reaping,
but no joyful thanksgiving this season,
only the long winter to follow
and when we stand
nose to the windowpane
looking out on all we’ve wrought
the sinking cold within
that the buried garden was ours

Writer, walker, poet, educator. Commercial fisherman, builder, donut maker, organic grower. Boston, U. City, Maine, South Africa, Madrid.

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